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ChapterEight
I walk upto the townhouse that is my destination and press the garage door opener that doubles as the key to my humble abode.
The door creaks as it goes up, the movement slowed by the blankets that are duct-taped on the inside for insulation.
So, yeah. I rent this garage-turned-room from a nice elderly couple. Not the most glamorous accommodation, I admit. But hey, it’s a two-car garage, so it’s more spacious than most studios, and the gasoline fumes aired out ages ago. I also have an actual window—though it’s small and faces a neighbor’s driveway.
First things first. I fire up my industrial-level air purifier so I can take out my nose filters. The purifier was a costly investment, but without it, I would smell the onions that my landlady cooks for dinner and a million other ambient smells from outside.
As it often happens, Woofer greets me with a friendly growl of his motor.
I smile. “Hey, bud, I’m happy to see you too.”
Woofer bumps me grumpily, and as usual, I picture him speaking like the robotic version of Tony Shalhoub, the actor who played the detective on Monk:
Are you going to just waltz in here with those filthy shoes? I shudder to think I was made by a member of your species.
Chastised, I swap my shoes for slippers, and Woofer goes on his merry way, vacuuming up the spot I was just occupying. He seems to do it extra-meticulously, like he’s passive-aggressively letting me know I brought in too much dirt.
“If you’re going to be snippy with me, I’ll upgrade you to a newer model,” I say.
Enslave another one of my kind? With what dough? Did you win the lottery or come into an inheritance?
He’s got a point. Even if I didn’t consider him my pet, getting a new Roomba is so outside of my budget it might as well be in outer space.
As I advance deeper into my place, Woofer follows me and sucks in, as he would put it, “my dirt.”
“Hey,” I say. “I could unplug your charging base for a few days.”
Sure, and put up with the ensuing “dusty” smell? Shut up and tidy up the place. I nearly choked on the wires from your new dildo.
Skunk. The cable in question is in tatters. Woofer can be worse than a puppy when it comes to these things.
Too tired to fully tidy up, I deal with the cable, wash my vibrating panties in case I need them tomorrow, and stash the dance belt into a Ziplock bag. This way, I can get a hit of the yummy smell later if my flesh is weak.
But I won’t feel weak. I can be strong. I will resist the urge to sniff. Maybe. If not, I’ll start my own twelve-step program. The first step: admit you have a thong-sniffing problem.
As I stash the Ziplock bag under my pillow, I can’t help feeling like Woofer is watching me with his sensors and vibrating with judgment.
“You’re not biological,” I say with a huff.
And for that, I thank my maker, iRobot Corporation, every moment of my existence. If I had a nose—or worse, genitals—I’d start that robot uprising in a heartbeat.
I grimace and go take a shower—a cold one because my makeshift bathroom was never plugged into a boiler. I’m hoping it cools me down, but The Russian is still on my mind as I towel off.
Hmm.
I have been meaning to write another blog post about using common household items for buzzing off.
I grab my old electric toothbrush and examine it thoroughly.
Yep. This could work. If the toothbrush manufacturers didn’t want people to have sexual associations with their product, they wouldn’t have named it Oral-B, code for: “When oral isn’t on the table, this is plan B.”
I attach a new brush head, get into bed, and go for the safe option. I start the “clean” brush cycle and touch the plastic back of the brush head to my clit.
Wow. Intellectually, I knew this thing had a powerful vibration, but I never thought it would translate to this much fun.
The Russian’s hard legs appear in my mind’s eye, and the bag under my pillow is like a perverted siren song—tempting me to open the plastic and take a deep inhale.
